


wolves and other beasts

by thisishardcore



Category: Columbine - Fandom, True Crime - Fandom
Genre: Columbine, Drinking, First Kiss, High School, Jealousy, M/M, Violent Thoughts, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:47:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26765305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisishardcore/pseuds/thisishardcore
Summary: But he catches Eric's face— he's talking to some girl Dylan doesn't recognize, and it stirs his stomach up in horrible ways. The aftertaste of booze, the nicotine clinging to his teeth and throat does nothing to dampen the feeling of complete inadequacy. It's quiet, but sharper than usual, honed on the edge of his buzz. He fucking flips.
Relationships: Eric Harris/Dylan Klebold
Kudos: 26





	wolves and other beasts

**Author's Note:**

> once again, short and unedited for the most part. written in one go, in the middle of the night. if you tell me to get help, i'll probably agree with you.

Dylan is drunk off some shitty fruity something and is sitting on a couch of someone he doesn't fucking know. Someone keeps saying his name, which is fine, and probably not actually his— and he could stay like this forever. Fuck April, fuck NBK, he could have a whole fucking lifetime of this. Teenaged suicide and suburban nightmares feel like a balloon floating away from him. 

But he catches Eric's face— he's talking to some girl Dylan doesn't recognize, and it stirs his stomach up in horrible ways. The aftertaste of booze, the nicotine clinging to his teeth and throat does nothing to dampen the feeling of complete inadequacy. It's quiet, but sharper than usual, honed on the edge of his buzz. He fucking flips. 

He storms out the backdoor of the house, glass bottle still in hand, smashes it on the concrete walkway to the pool, runs across the lawn.

Fuck April. Fuck NBK. He can't fucking do this, and Eric was fucking idiotic for ever thinking he could, thinking they could ever fit together. Reb and VoDKa, like Mickey and fucking Mallory. Dylan is starting to think he's more like Wayne Gale. 

Maybe he just isn't built for this shit. His legs carry him too well away from the house, too well-built for running, not used to standing their ground. 

Eric was the real born killer. It was obvious from his fucking bone structure, from his eyes alone. He was a fucking machine under pressure, had a plan for everything, and usually made them go off without a hitch. Dylan couldn't ever shake his childish admiration of him, even years after they've known each other, even after hearing Eric's worst, most violent thoughts. 

Dylan ends up in an empty field, houses unkempt and unlike the neat rows of his own neighborhood. The grass reaches his knees. The moon is full. He collapses onto his back.

He could never shake Eric. Despite the constant warnings from friends and parents alike, Dylan could never imagine telling Eric to go fuck himself, telling him that he wouldn't be bogged down in his rage-fueled attack on the world. Dylan looks up at the night sky, and he thinks about all the shit he's gonna give up in the next few months because of it.

No more stupid parties. No more lying to Mom and Dad. No more pretending to care about grades, or college, or any of it. No more trying to fit himself into a perfect little version of himself to get a date, or a friend, or a job. He was never any good at any of that anyway, has always been a different species than those around him. Eric was a different species too, something made of gunpowder and charcoal. 

He can never stop thinking about Eric. And he could blame NBK. He could blame the past months of constant planning but— It's hard to lie to yourself drunk.

Eric is the only person to come after him. Has to be near dawn. Dylan wonders if anyone's talking about him clearing the fence.

Eric stands over him in his stupid fucking shoes, stupid fucking pants. Some shirt with some band logo that he's probably played on the shitty speakers in his stupid fucking car on the way to school. Eric lays down next to him.

And for a moment, they're both nothing but presence. Angels, probably. Light without mass. Breath without lungs. There are no words to be said— they've been talking out loud less and less lately as everything started coming together. They communicated through half-smirks and practiced hand signals. Code words and movie quotes, if anything. Dylan turns to Eric, and Eric turns to him. And Eric cracks a smile because this is all so fucking stupid. Laying under the fucking stars.

They'll never mention this to anyone. They won't do anything about it. Dylan will keep his drunkenness as a shield, and Eric will get some girl's number later that week. But they kiss. It happens. 

It's really horrible. Dylan feels bad for any girl that's had to put up with it. It's fast, and hard, and filled with years of repression. Dylan wonders what exactly Eric is repressing, what exactly this is a release of. But it's Eric, and Dylan's already given every single one of his thoughts to Eric. They're blood brothers, forged under the pressure of Columbine into one unit. Joined at the hip. So they kiss. And it's not the worse thing Dylan will ever do.

Eric's hip is currently under Dylan's hand, pressed against his stomach. He imagines Eric gutting him. He thinks it'd be alright. He imagines a version of himself that could be confident in what he's doing, what he's thinking.

He's sure the grass is going to wrap around their ankles any second now, drag them straight to hell before they even get a chance to immortalize themselves. They pull apart before that happens, Eric panting into Dylan's shoulder, his fists full of grass and dirt. They won't speak a word of his, but Dylan will think of this for the rest of his life. 

The sun rises on the both of them— lips sealed, hands dirty. April will come soon enough. Dylan's ready for it.


End file.
